


Nine Lives Times Four

by agent_of_mischief



Series: Anathema Doesn't Burn The Book Verse [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Anathema didn't burn the book, Auras, Aziraphale says trans rights, Coming Out, Demonic pep talks, Established Relationship, F/F, Fall related trauma, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Genderqueer Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Lesbian Anathema, Lesbian Newt, M/M, Meddling Aziraphale, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Doubt, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Some Humor, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Too Many Footnotes, Trans Female Character, Trans Newt, Transphobia, a wee bit of catharsis through writing but no self inserts, comforting Aziraphale, kitten fic, rather sudden materialization of flaming swords, self loathing Crowley, transphobic parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_of_mischief/pseuds/agent_of_mischief
Summary: Crowley finds a box of abandoned kittens which he brings to Aziraphale. As they raise and adopt out the kittens, both they and the people around them are affected by the little critters in unexpected ways. Emotions are discussed and new beginnings are made, because sometimes a box of kittens is what it takes to start healing. Four stand alone stories about an angel and a demon connected by a single cat-shaped thread.





	1. that could be enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds a box of abandoned kittens and decides to take them to Aziraphale's bookstore. The rescue goes well, until it doesn't, because sometimes the smallest things can reopen old wounds. But this time he doesn't have to tend to them alone.

The pattering of rain always had a calming effect on Aziraphale, ever since the first one really. It was Crowley who had been frightened back then, even though his pride would never let him admit it. Aziraphale smiles fondly at the recollection. More than that, like every time he thinks about Crowley a warm spark starts spreading through his chest. That's nothing new, the newness lies in the fact that he not only lets it but he acknowledges it. He recognizes its four-letter name and he basks in its near divine glory.

Content, he wraps his hands around his cocoa mug and let's his mind drift[1] deeper into Crowley related thoughts. Despite the fact that Crowley visiting his shop on a Saturday evening is far from a rare occasion[2], it still feels like a direct result of his wishful thinking when the bell above the front door rings. Aziraphale doesn't even consider the possibility that it's an actual customer, so he pops out front with barely contained excitement.

"Crowley-"

His excitement fizzles out like… whatever it is that fizzles really fast, as he takes in the demon's state. Crowley is drenched, shivering, and his expression is miserable. So taken by that Aziraphale doesn't even register the box he's protectively hunched over.

"Oh, my dear, we need to get you warmed up," he says urgently.

He doesn't even think about the power it takes to miracle Crowley dry, and he knows dry doesn't cut it on its own for his cold blooded friend. He casts his eyes about as if a blanket will manifest itself lying inappropriately among the stacks[3].

"Angel, we have to warm _them_ up," Crowley manages through chattering teeth.

He proffers the box, and it only then enters Aziraphale's field of consciousness.

The angel gives him a puzzled look and then he hears the weakest meow coming from the box. 

"They were abandoned," Crowley explains. He aims for nonchalance[4], having collected himself.

Aziraphale can hear something desperate and broken in the last word, which promptly embeds itself into the angel's heart like an icy splinter. _This is important to Crowley,_ he thinks. _This is important to me._

He walks over, allowing himself a more fussy air than he would normally have. It’s a familiar play for them, even now that Below and Above don’t give much of a damn about those things. He sees four tiny kittens; eyes still tightly shut huddling together for warmth in the small shoe box.

"Oh, the poor dears," he exclaims, with actual feeling behind his exaggeration.

"Yes. I figured, you know, pity if they died, and then I thought doesn't Aziraphale like cats so…" Crowley clears his throat and extends the box towards him, but his grip on it is still white-knuckle tight.

Aziraphale knows better than to point out he has never mentioned a love of cats bigger than that for any other living creature. Or that Crowley's hands are ever so slightly shaking. He takes hold of the box, brushing Crowley's hand gently as he does so to prompt him to relax. He sees the little ones are dry, but he knows they can do with a little extra warmth[5] . He places a palm over the small frightened bundle and releases loving radiance onto them. He steals a glance up at Crowley, who grins fiercely when he sees them wiggle about with more energy than before.

"They're one of ours, I think, cats," he says.

“Their conception precedes the, _you know_ , I would think”. Aziraphale doesn’t utter the word ‘Fall’ with the same ease as he used to anymore.

Crowley raises an eyebrow, but he elects to move on.

“I meant their domestication[6], and humanity's worship of the little buggers. Fuzzy little agents of chaos they are.”

Aziraphale tuts. “They are lovely company and they bring joy into people’s lives, Crowley. Your, er, ex-people did the plague rats, I’m pretty sure. Exact opposite of those. Natural enemies.”

“Alright, alright.” Crowley gently pokes one of the kittens -a tuxedo, and the smallest of the bunch- and it responds with an indignant “mrrrp”.

If the muffled sound that escapes Crowley’s lips could be described as akin to a giggle, Aziraphale knows better than to dwell on it. His vessel may just discorporate due to his heart bursting, and only a few weeks after Adam gave it back to him.

“So, they need to eat, right?” he opts to say instead.

“No, you leave them out in the sun to photosynthesize.” Crowley has perfected the art of the whole face eye-roll, so his glasses present no barrier.

“Well, you brought them in,” Aziraphale retorts primly.

“Cat milk, I assume,” Crowley says thoughtfully. “How do you get… Can you milk a cat?” he mutters under his breath.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale asks absentmindedly, his attention focused on the soft sleeping pile of cats. It does look strangely _inviting._

“I said I will look it up, meanwhile, you know, keep them warm.”

Crowley pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously on it, and Aziraphale takes the box to the back room.

* * *

It doesn't take too long for Crowley to find out the human solution to the problem of orphan kitten diet. And it takes even less for kitten formula along with the other paraphernalia the blogs suggested to disappear from a pet store somewhere and reappear in front of the demon. _And despite recent events and newfound freedoms, a demon I am_ , he thinks indignantly. And he is not going to bottle feed kittens[7].

He gathers up the supplies and saunters[8] towards the backroom.

"Listen I'm not getting involved in-"

His protest dies with a strangled sound when he catches sight of Aziraphale. The angel's self-satisfied little smile suggests he thinks Crowley's silence is a result of his stern look and bringing a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. When in fact, Crowley doesn't trust the sounds his mouth is liable to make at the sight he's faced with.

Aziraphale is seated in his favourite armchair and the kittens have all left the dirty shoe-box of their origin and are instead nestled on top of the angel. Two of them are cuddled up together on Aziraphale's soft stomach, cradled by one arm. Another sleeps in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, little feet sprawled out as if it fell asleep mid-stretch. The last one, the ratty little tuxedo, is nestled among Aziraphale's soft curls, looking content as anything. 

Crowley understands their sentiment. However, he merely raises an eyebrow.

"They didn't like the box," Aziraphale says almost defensively, "they were cold".

Crowley's eyes dart to another discarded blanket on the couch -his couch- and back to Aziraphale. He is also cold, has been for a while.

"I was going to let you deal with them and head back, but seeing how you are _preoccupied_ , I guess I can help make their milk," he manages after a bit of deliberation. Another thing he has mastered is the ‘I am magnanimously giving you the gift of my presence, I guess’ tone.

"Thank you, dear." Aziraphale flashes him an angelic smile.

Crowley plucks the milk formula and starts making for upstairs, before doubling back for the blanket. He drapes the tartan monstrosity over his shoulders like a kingly mantle, which elicits a small laugh from the angel. The sound fills him and the warmth follows suit.

* * *

Aziraphale waits until Crowley is back out of earshot and then turns, ever so gently as to not disturb the kitten on top of his head, to the little tabby twins blinking up at him from their spot on his stomach.

“As I was saying, you need to be good and grow big and strong for Crowley, or he will be quite sad. He saved you, you know. He still doesn’t want to hear it but that’s rather _good_ of him.”

The kittens blink up at him as if in understanding. Aziraphale pats the one still asleep on his shoulder, a round little calico. She’s the biggest but also the most sluggish of the bunch. 

“That goes for you too,” he tells her. “I know you are all very small, and you’ve been through a lot but you are all doing so well and-”

“Already spoiling them?” Crowley’s voice comes from somewhere behind him and Aziraphale barely remembers not to snap his head around because of his little feline passenger.

“They need a little encouragement,” the angel retorts.

He wonders how long exactly Crowley has been listening, and heat rises in his cheeks. He’s suddenly glad he can’t turn. He has managed[9] to chase the fluster from his face by the time Crowley walks into view.

The feeding bottles Crowley is holding are small enough to be held between pointer and thumb, and more importantly there are two of them. Crowley hands him one wordlessly and picks up one of the twin tabbies before perching on the chair's armrest. The little guy eats with unrestrained gusto, and Aziraphale stealthily copies what Crowley is doing, unsure in his own cat-handling abilities.

After the tabbies go back to sleep, milk drunk and content, they discover the small tuxedo is the most ferocious eater, making loud appreciative noises and clawing at the bottle like a cat possessed. Aziraphale wrangles it as best as he can, while trying to explain in a calm voice why it should calm down, _if it would be so kind._

Crowley chuckles at the display. He proceeds to pick up the calico, last one that hasn't eaten. She barely wiggles in his grasp.

"Alright, come on," Crowley mumbles as he nudges her into the right position.

He pushes the bottle close to her mouth, but unlike the others she doesn't latch onto it.

"Don't be fussy with me," Crowley grumbles, pushing the bottle more forcefully.

Aziraphale eyes the little creature, feeling a spark of worry at her sluggishness, which he'd assumed natural so far. Babies do sleep a lot, after all.

He watches Crowley's exasperated efforts that end up with most of the milk spilling out of her mouth and dribbling out.

"Oh, come on now." The demon mutters irritably.

The kitten pushes the bottle away.

"I am trying to keep you alive here," he growls, carefully keeping her paws away and trying again.

Aziraphale knows better than to comment on his tone, but he notices the tabbies on his chest are starting to shuffle uneasily.

"Crowley-"

"Eat, you blessed thing!" Crowley snarls.

His voice slices through the cozy atmosphere like a blade.

All of the kittens try to burrow deeper in Aziraphale's clothes, and the one on Crowley's grip resorts to pathetic trembling.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale chides, "There really was no reason for-"

The angel loses the ability to form words when he notices the open faced horror that has taken over Crowley's face. Last time he saw that expression on the demon's face the apocalypse had been upon them.

Crowley places the terrified kitten on Aziraphale's lap, ever so gently despite everything, and stumbles away from the armchair.

"I didn't…" he mutters, "I can't deal with this."

Aziraphale isn't sure how to respond to that, but the sight of Crowley backing away from him, face crumpled up, fills him with dread.

"I need to go. I'm… I'm done here," the demon mutters.

"Crowley, wait!" Aziraphale protests, but Crowley is storming off. By the time he has put the kittens down and he makes his way to the bookstore's entrance, the Bentley is pulling out to the street and speeding off.

He rests his forehead on the door frame and lets out a long drawn out sigh.

"Well damn it all," the angel mutters low enough only for the smooth wood to hear.

* * *

Crowley speeds when he's happy, when he's worried, and when he’s angry. The pace he keeps now, well within the speed limit would be described as ominous by a certain angel, had he been in the car. Every red light the demon actually stops for is just another nail in the coffin; Crowley is absolutely _wretched_. He knows he shouldn’t be, and he hates himself a little for the exaggeration of it all. It’s not like he hurt the little creature, _but the way Aziraphale sounded and looked…_

Crowley bangs his fist against the steering wheel and snarls. He was so stupid, acting like this in front of Aziraphale. Reminding the angel of his demonic nature. O _h, that’s exactly what he needed right now_. As if he does’t spend each day worrying, expecting it to be the day that Aziraphale would suddenly snap out of it. ‘ _I am so sorry, this whole thing has been a mistake, you are still a demon and I am still an angel, I cannot really be in love with you.’_

He slams the Bentley’s door on his way out; after everything taking his frustration on the car seems like the lesser evil. His hands are shaking by the time he closes his flat’s door behind him, and he collapses right there. It will be for the best, he thinks, if Aziraphale does snap out of it. He deserves better than him. He deserves someone _good._ It had been an artful deception, really, convincing an angel that he was worthy of his love, but it would be all the better to end it.

Does it really matter that he’s capable of love when his love is just as poisonous as demonic hatred? He cares about his plants and he terrifies them. He worried about the kitten, he really did, and he felt the way her little heart beat when he shouted at her. So terrified of the person she’d trusted so completely. And he loves Aziraphale, so much it hurts and sometimes he finds it hard to breathe. How long before he betrays his trust too? How long before he hurts him? Love like his doesn’t deserve to be returned.

He doesn’t pick himself up from the floor, _no_ , in fact he wishes it would open up, take him back into the bowels of Hell and be done with it. Only he doesn’t, not really, he’s still too selfish to wish for that.

Time loses its meaning, and any amount could have passed when the doorbell rings. Crowley picks himself up and lingers.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice calls out from outside.

Crowley feels himself being torn in a million little pieces, momentarily his molecules actually consider spreading apart, each finding a different corner of the universe to hide in so that they may never come together again. Then he pushes his discarded glasses back on his face, a barrier to hide everything he feels, and he opens the door.

“My dear boy, you worried me the way you stormed off,” Aziraphale says, lingering in the doorway. The admonishing tone Crowley expected isn’t there, and it somehow makes it all worse.

“Come in. Want something to drink? I’ll get you something.” Crowley’s words stumble over each other in their rush to spill out of his mouth. Then he turns and hurries towards the kitchen, giving Aziraphale the option to follow him or go to the living room.

Aziraphale grabs his hand instead, and turns him around.

“Thank you, but no need. Just, come sit with me?” The angel lets go of Crowley’s hand then, giving him the choice.

Crowley of course follows. He would follow his angel to the end of the world, _Hell_ he already had. Still, he sits further away from Aziraphale than he normally would, and he doesn’t sprawl, limbs coiled in in an attempt to become as small as possible. He knows Aziraphale will notice, but there are some things he can’t help.

“The kittens are all good,” Aziraphale attempts. “You shouldn’t…” he pauses for a second, “worry about that at all.”

Crowley shakes his head and his hands clench and unclench as if he’s grasping for something. Then his angel’s hands are interlaced in them, soft but firm. He doesn’t turn to face him.

“I didn’t mean to. I almost scared the life out of her,” he says miserably, “I may be a demon, but a dam- blessed kitten?”

Once he wouldn’t have dared to let anyone, least of all Aziraphale, see him like this. But he has already torn himself wide open for him, he bared his heart, fragile wretched little thing it is, and the angel accepted it with a love and care usually reserved for holy things. So what if his breath becomes shallow and laboured now, and his eyes are squeezed shut behind their lenses?

A gentle hand turns his head; it takes no physical force, just the force of Aziraphale’s will. The angel leans in closer but he waits, he always does, if not to be met halfway then at least for an invitation. And the inventor of temptation gives it, always. Sometimes, like now, it’s just an imperceptible nod and not pulling away even when he can’t bring himself to lean in closer.

Aziraphale frames Crowley’s face with his hands and kisses him. It’s tender, reassuring, and it grows fiercer as the demon starts responding. Crowley doesn’t need to breathe, but he’d still been drowning and now air is being breathed back into his lungs. He melts into the kiss, tries to get absorbed by the sensation until there is no shame or apprehension left in him, but then –all too soon, it feels- it ends. Still, Aziraphale leaves his hands firmly on the sides of Crowley’s face and brings their foreheads together.

“It’s alright, Crowley.”

There is so much tenderness in his angel’s voice, almost enough to drown out the one that is scraping at the insides of his own head. _You don’t deserve thisss._

“You stepped a bit out of line because you were worried, I think she will forgive you,” Aziraphale continues, his tone lighter. 

_She will forgive you_. Crowley stifles an ugly hysterical laugh that threatens to rise. Or it could be a sob because, _well_ , _hadn’t he thought the same once?_ In all his angelic naivety he hadn't realized that the only thing that mattered was where the line was compared to where you stood. Compared to where you had been placed against -no, before the existence of- your will on the cosmic chessboard.

“It’s all it takes, isn’t it? _One little wrong step_. And then suddenly you’re...” Crowley’s next words curl up and die somewhere in his throat, leaving a bitter rotting taste there. His eyes are screwed shut now, not because he doesn’t feel safe with Aziraphale, but because he feels like that might shield the angel from all the rushing horror that’s spreading through his body as if he’s Falling still.

“Oh, my love.” Aziraphale’s words are dripping with so much hurt Crowley snaps his head up with a small gasp. Unexpectedly, the expression he’s met with is not pitying, or even mournful. It’s blazing like a long misplaced sword he’d first gazed upon from afar in a garden.

“Then She is wrong. Anyone who thinks you are unforgivable is wrong, and if you think so, you’re wrong too,” the angel proclaims.

There is none of the old hesitation in his voice and fear in his eyes. There’s conviction, and compassion, and a sort of low simmering anger with no clear recipient, and…

“Love.” Crowley mutters.

_Ι can’t put it any better than that. Especially to you_ , the invasive little voice in Crowley’s head echoes. His grip on Aziraphale’s arms tightens, and tightens. Surely the angel will push him away any moment now, but he can’t stop tightening.

“Yes, love,” Aziraphale whispers, and he pulls Crowley to him.

He handles him so delicately, tenderly with just the right amount of pressure. He pulls Crowley close, and closer, and closer, as if trying to banish every single molecule that dares stand between them.

Crowley’s head rests against the angel’s chest and he’s fully enveloped in his embrace. A hand runs soothingly through his hair and he squeezes his eyes shut, allowing his hands to snake around Aziraphale’s waist and secure him there, making sure he won’t leave him. _Not ever again_. Despite himself, the strangled sobs that have been building up escape him, his tears seeping into Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale pulls him closer, he whispers soft reassurances into Crowley’s hair and Crowley can slowly feel his breaths evening out.

Crowley doesn’t stop falling, not just yet. Maybe he never will, but now he knows for certain; someone will always be there to catch him. Maybe that could be enough.

* * *

[1] As it does increasingly often, ever since it turned into a guilt and anguish free pastime.

[2] But rather, one of those things where the dice God casts are fixed.

[3] And soon thereafter, it does.

[4] But he misses by a good mile.

[5] And that may be one point that endears felines to him above other critters; that their unending quest for warmth reminds him of a certain serpent he's acquainted with.

[6] In fact, everything cats do ever since and including their domestication has been and will always be their own decision, and from their point of view it was humanity that got domesticated to them.

[7] It's un-demonic enough that he doesn't feed _on_ kittens, which is a cruel and distasteful thought altogether.

[8] ‘Saunter’ is the closest one can come to describing Crowley's gait in one word, and it doesn't really do justice to the wild hip oscillation taking place.

[9] Or so he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated with lovely art my amazing friend [Marleena](https://twitter.com/MillaMarleena) made a while back of Aziraphale and the kitties


	2. she is not who she says he is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's rescue kittens grow up and are ready to be adopted, and Aziraphale knows just the place to start. Meanwhile in Tadfield, Newton Pulsifer and Anathema device both face internal struggles. Maybe two celestial beings with a basket of kittens is what they need to resolve their situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things. First, this fic loosely follows [like real people do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19164151) but all you really need to know is that rather than burn the second book, Anathema gives it to Aziraphale.  
> Also, Newt is closeted for most of this, and in Anathema's pov male pronouns are used until Anathema learns she is trans. She is never purposefully misgendered, but some people might still mind.

* * *

Eventually Crowley agrees to come around the shop again. His guilt at having terrorized the kittens has turned into a stubborn bet with himself; _I'll make them like me even more than they do Aziraphale. Oh yes, I'll be like their fun dad, who gets them catnip and lets them scratch up as much furniture as they want. Just you wait._

They seem to have grown so much within a week, as cats do at that age. They are all much livelier than when he found them[1], making their first bumbling crawls around the space Aziraphale has made for them in the back room. Crowley approaches gingerly, but Aziraphale flashes him an encouraging smile. As the angel steps closer one little head emerges from the writhing pile of kittens. The small tuxedo lets out a mournful complaint and stretches towards them.

"Now now, I just fed you," Aziraphale chides softly. Still he leans over and picks the little kitty up. A storm of purring ensues, and Aziraphale smiles brightly at the kitten.

Crowley feels the sudden urge to grab Aziraphale by the lapels and make him forget all about cats, but he also doesn't want to stop watching his angel tenderly cradle the little kitten.

"Did… Did his eyes open there a bit?" Crowley inquires. He sounds more delighted than he likes to let on.

"Oh, yes. She's in quite a rush, even though she's the tiniest of the bunch," Aziraphale says fondly. The kitten returns the compliment by climbing up Aziraphale's collar and trying to stick its foot in his mouth.

"Its a girl? She's an ugly one isn't she?" Crowley says in an attempt to retain some of his demonic dignity.

Aziraphale's mouth forms a perfect 'o' shape full of indignation.

"Crowley! She's young, just you wait and she'll become the prettiest of the bunch!" Aziraphale huffs. 

Crowley can't keep a smile from his face.

"You know who she reminds me of? Beelzebub. All scraggly, bulgy eyes, scruffy tuxedo." He laughs as Aziraphale's indignation turns into something full on scandalized. Then he crouches over the kittens and picks up the little calico girl.

"Hey, uh, sorry for yelling at you." He tells her. She demands more from him, in the form of being held against his neck and softly stroked- as Aziraphale explains- which seems to placate her perfectly. Her purrs are softer and her fur is fluffier than her sister's.

"See, she already loves you," Aziraphale says in a voice that makes sure " _how could she not?"_ doesn't really need to be said aloud. He says it anyway after a moment’s deliberation.

Crowley ducks his head down to hide a furious blush, and he finds the excuse he needs for it still curled against the many blankets Aziraphale has strewn around; two of them actually, cuddled up together.

"How about these, then?" Crowley clears his throat.

"Hamlet and Horatio[2] nap around this hour." Aziraphale explains.

"You named them?" Crowley exclaims.

Aziraphale lowers his eyes, with a bit of embarrassment. “I..”

“It’s lovely!” Crowley is quick to assure. “How about these two then? Οh wait, this one is Bee!” He points to the tuxedo, now dubbed Beelzebub “Bee” Prince of Hell.

“I never agreed to that[3]!” Aziraphale fusses.

“Αnd this one,” Crowley ignores him and looks at the mostly white calico. He takes in her soft round head and her little blue eyes blinking lazily up at him. It reminds him, instantly, of a certain celestial being.

“Actually, their owners should name them. Yep,” the demon declares. At this point it is unclear whether it is the kitten clinging lovingly to him or the other way around.

“Their owners? Oh…” The angel mutters.

“You can’t keep four cats, Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice has a warning edge to it.

“You’re right, dear. But then, who do we give them to?”

* * *

It takes another two weeks[4] for the kittens to grow big and self-reliant enough to be adopted away. And it takes two weeks and a day for them to be piled in a cat basket and get excitedly shoved in the back seat of the Bentley and strapped in by an overly eager Aziraphale.

“Thought you would hate to part with them,” Crowley mutters.

“Yes but, well this is quite excellent, don’t you think? Who better to look after them than-”

“A witch?” Crowley interrupts, flashing a cheeky grin.

‘Well, yes,” Aziraphale says, “plus the girl insisted when she heard about them. And she’s a responsible young lady, I trust her.” Aziraphale doesn’t so much lie, as let part of the truth fade as noise in his head where it can be blissfully omitted. Not that he does not trust Anathema, or that Anathema is not excited about adopting a cat. But for now he still needs some time to think of how to explain the real reason he is in such a rush to get to Tadfield.

“I suppose,” Crowley starts in that airy tone that he gets when he tries particularly hard to sound disinterested, “we could also check on Adam. You know, make sure another Armageddon is not on the way.” He lets out a forced laugh.

“Just start the car, Crowley,” Aziraphale scoffs, pushing down the urge to smile anyway. _Τhe old serpent doesn’t need the encouragement._

They are halfway there when Aziraphale has finally settled on how to explain his plan[5] to Crowley.

“So, Ι have been reading the book young Anathema gave me[6],” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley turns sharply towards him, eyes completely off the road.

“You know, I was only joking about Armageddon 2: Electric Boogaloo earlier,” he chokes out.

“Nothing of the sort, dear boy. Watch the road!”

Crowley reluctantly complies, but not without a show of mouthing ‘watch the road’ in a mocking voice.

“Yes, so, I found this one,” Aziraphale starts, patting down his many more than expected coat pockets, “ah there.”

Aziraphale unfolds a neatly folded note and clears his throat. “The decendnnte of Pulfifier shalt not be a manne no more, whych she hath ne’er in truf been. And the gyver of alle knowledge shalt assyst wif thise.”

Aziraphale turns expectantly. He knows Crowley’s attention span is not his strong suit, but this was hardly a long narration.

“Who’s Pulfifer?” the demon finally asks.

“Pulsifer, the young, erm, _lad_ , from the airbase.” Aziraphale explains.

Crowley raises an eyebrow high enough to peek above his shades.

“With Anathema?” the angel prods on.

“Oh! The other human, tall, glasses, completely unremarkable!” Crowley grins at his apparent victory.

“Well yes, and if I read this correctly, he, or rather, she-”

“Ah!” Crowley exclaims, followed by an unintelligible string of vowels.

“You sure that’s what that means? It would be embarrassing to spring it to them if it’s not right, and you know, usually I have a much better eye for these things, all things considered.”

“Crowley, the world was ending,” Aziraphale points out. “And you didn’t even remember young Pulisifer-”

“ _Pulfifer_?” Crowley interjects with a snicker.

“I was going for authenticity,” Aziraphale grumbles. “In any case, I think the first part is fairly obvious, and as for the second…”

_And the gyver of alle knowledge shalt assyst wif thise._

“Wait, you don’t think…” Crowley stammers as he catches on.

“I do think. Giver of all knowledge, Eden, it must be you!” Aziraphale concludes with a self-satisfied smile.

Crowley sighs and leans towards the steering wheel. “Angel,” he starts, with the hesitation of one who knows they must tread lightly “I love you, and I think you’re brilliant, but should I remind you of the last time you tried to decipher one of these new prophecies and interfere?”

Aziraphale needs a long time to recover from Crowley’s casual “I love you”[7]. When he finally does he finds himself mortified at the prospect.

“You should not! And, well that’s what I need your help for, my dear. As you said you have a better eye for these things.”

“Do we have to-”

“Also, I love you too,” Aziraphale interrupts Crowley’s complaint.

The sounds that come out of Crowley’s mouth at that can’t be attributed to any human language[8].

Aziraphale flashes him an angelic smile that’s, if Crowley says so himself, positively fiendish.

“You will be the death of me, angel,” the demon mutters, heart soaring somewhere among the myriads of nebulas, any inhibition he may have had blown away like dust.

* * *

Anathema peers at Newt through the kitchen door and sighs. At this point she doesn’t need her Sight to be able to see that something is eating Newton Pulsifer. His aura has grown more and more muddled the past few days. And sure, an almost-Apocalypse is no small matter, especially after the dust settles and there is time to realize exactly what it all meant. At least for someone who didn’t grow up with bedtime stories about it, she assumes. And to top it all off there is her own confusion weighing on her.

Their arrangement with Newt is nothing short of rushed, and she doesn’t want to send him away, she really doesn’t but, _well, she can’t put her finger on why_. She thought a few years past that men were safely filed away as “been there, done that, will never again do that”, and sure those things are much more fluid than that, but she’s got to be sure it’s not some misguided sense of duty or pity holding them together. That would not be fair to either of them. Only, how can she put her own thoughts in order when she’s sharing her cottage with an emotional ticking bomb?

“Anathema, are you… Are you sure about that?” The ticking bomb asks, bumbling into the kitchen.

“Hm?”

“The cat,” Newt explains. “I mean, we just moved in together, and everything is going so fast, and now a pet, and I mean, we don’t even know each other so well. I mean, I am not saying I want to leave, but also I don’t want you to regret, well, all of it.”

Anathema sees Newt’s eyes cloud over and something in her clenches up painfully. His aura is a swirly grey with flashes of every shade of bad there is; yellow fear, violet panic, a deep blue sorrow underneath it all. Anathema closes the distance between them and embraces him.

“Listen,” she starts awkwardly as comfort is far from her forte, “we will figure it out. We will figure everything out. _Together_.”

 _And Go-Sa-Someone knows, she means it._ She will figure out whatever this is, and then they will both be able to be happy. It’s moments like these that make her miss The Book. She doesn’t regret her overall decision, but suddenly understanding the world comes without clues and that can be overwhelming. This is why she is certain about the cat. Because if someone can help her now, it has to be the person bringing it.

“Aren’t they late anyway?” Newt mumbles against her hair.

Anathema remembers to finally pull away, as gently as she can. “I suppose they are,” She says.

That is when the doorbell rings.

* * *

Aziraphale shifts a bit, basket of kittens held before him like an awkward offering. They stayed quiet on the entire trip[9] despite Crowley’s driving, and they are quiet now. And so is Crowley. It seems on their way there he decided to take this whole thing in stride[10].He laid out an entire plan of action during the final leg of the drive, and he seems ready for step one: _reconnaissance_.

They are faced with a smiling Anathema when the door opens. Another human presence lingers somewhere deeper in the house. Anathema greets Aziraphale with a cheek kiss, which earns her a raised eyebrow from Crowley. It seems to amuse her; a hint of a smirk is playing on her face when she offers a cool nod to the demon.

Then she turns around, and the second human shuffles forward. It's them she addresses next.

"You remember Aziraphale, but I don't think you've met Mr. Crowley yet."

Then she turns to Crowley.

"This is Newton Pulsifer, my _boyfriend_."

Aziraphale recognizes the hesitation in Anathema's voice for what it is; uncertainty. _Are we going too fast?_

But behind her, hidden from her line of sight, Newt takes the word like a punch to the gut. She- and Aziraphale is certain now that's the right word, he feels it click into place like a little piece of coherent understanding in the huge ineffable puzzle- schools her face after a second, hiding her discomfort behind her ever awkward disposition. Aziraphale wonders if maybe that too is just dysphoria in disguise. He shared a body he didn't belong in fairly recently, for just a couple of hours. He can only imagine what it would be like to feel like that for years[11].

"Yeah, that's why we brought the whole lot," Crowley, who's taken over the pleasantries[12] jostles Aziraphale out of his thoughts by tugging at the basket. One of the kittens meows in protest.

"Yes, ah, want to see them?" Aziraphale offers.

Anathema nods and ushers them inside to her cluttered living room. She directs Aziraphale to place the basket on the coffee table.

Both she and Newt lean over excitedly when he opens the basket. It is Newt that lets out a soft squeal at the sight of the sleepy kittens blinking awake.

"Dios mio, they're adorable," Anathema gasps.

Aziraphale can feel the love and delight coming off the both of them in waves, soothing the dark things looming over them, and he can't help but smile.

"Should had seen ‘em when I first found ‘em," Crowley pipes in.

It occurs to Aziraphale that there is a hint of strain in Crowley's voice. But then if _he_ could feel the negativity when they walked in, Crowley would have been drowning in it this whole time. Aziraphale would reach for one of the demon's hands, were they not flailing about, accentuating every word as he once again took over the conversation.

"This little bugger here wouldn't eat the first few days, and look at her now, bigger than the whole lot." Crowley picks up the calico offender, who reacts to him instantly. In fact she clings to Crowley with such ferocity he is unable to place her in Anathema's waiting arms.

Aziraphale leans over and gently picks up the tabby twins. He hands one to Newton and Anathema each.

"Those two boys are pretty chill," Crowley says, as if he needs to pitch a sale[13].

"I think this one is a girl," Newt says. It's the first time she speaks up and her voice is small, uncertain. She's comparing certain parts of the kitten in her hands with its sibling as if the world depends on it.

"Is she?" Crowley exclaims with a smile a bit too bright[14].

"Those things are kind of arbitrary anyways," he adds, so pointedly he's one step away from adding waggling eyebrows to the mix.

Aziraphale sighs. _He shouldn't be one to judge after several millennia of missing some even more pointed hints_.

"Cats don't really have gender, we just know their sex really," Anathema agrees.

Newt says nothing but she slinks back, trying to make herself smaller against the couch.

Aziraphale has seen enough, and judging by the heavy handed steer in the conversation so has Crowley. It is time for part two: _divide and conquer_.

"Anathema dear, there is no need to make a rushed choice, but why don't we go and make a spot of tea in the meantime?" Aziraphale suggests.

Anathema gets up and he follows her to the kitchen. 

"You know which cabinet the tea is in," Anathema says as she fills the kettle with water.

"Dear girl, pardon the intrusion, but you don't seem quite alright.” Aziraphale cuts straight to the chase. He has gleaned over the past weeks that that's the best way with Anathema.

He sees her shoulders tense up and then fall. The tap is running and the kettle is overflowing, water pouring from the sides. He approaches gingerly and turns off the tap. He gently takes the kettle from Anathema's hands, and she slumps back against the counter.

"Hgnkf," Anathema says[15] eventually.

“You both seem troubled, in fact,” Aziraphale continues.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with Newt,” Anathema huffs.

“Sh- ” Aziraphale has to bite his tongue. This is not his secret to reveal, to Anathema or to anyone. They have come here to help Miss Pulsifer, not make things worse.

“I can sense as much,” he says instead, with enough of a mystical aura to be convincing. “But you also seem tense, and maybe things will clear up if you get what’s eating at you off your chest.”

Anathema, who has given up on helping with the tea and is sitting on the kitchen counter gets up to pace.

“I don’t know. What am I doing, Aziraphale? I don’t want to hurt Newt, and I feel there is something there, but- I mean, I can’t just go up to him and say ‘hey, I am actually a lesbian, I don’t know how I can like you, and if I like you at all in this way or just acting on a prophecy’. Especially not now, the way he is.”

Aziraphale looks down at the boiling kettle and bites his lip. Maybe he was supposed to tell her, for Agnes would had told her anyway if she had kept the book. But then again, Agnes had also probably known he would get the book in the end, and she hadn’t mentioned him telling Anathema. The more he thinks about it the more anxious and confused he gets, and he understands why Anathema had been so eager to part with the prophecies; they aren’t half as fun when you have to decipher them and act on them.

“Both of you need to talk to each other,” he says eventually. “Take it from me, dear, I wish I’d done it millennia earlier than I did. And you don’t have anywhere near that much time.” His voice softens at the last part; it’s generally something he doesn’t like to think about.

“Newt will never tell me what’s going on with him though. And if I start with this he might just run away,” says Anathema.

“As for that,” Aziraphale hesitates, but he figures she needs at least some reassurance, “I think, or that is, _I think Agnes thinks_ that Crowley can help Newton with that. Hopefully they’ll be talking about it right now.”

* * *

Crowley, for all his denying it, has helped humans during his millennia on earth. And especially humans like Newton Pulsifer, who he can now tell clear as day is indeed as Aziraphale said she would be. He could, being a demon, taste her dysphoria and her shame in the air the moment he walked in. It almost overwhelmed him at first; some of her emotions hit a bit too close to home.

But now, as Aziraphale follows Anathema presumably into the kitchen, Crowley realizes something else; he has never helped anyone he _knew._ And, well, he doesn’t actually know the young woman, but they did all face down the End of the World together[16], and Aziraphale has grown fond of book gi- _Anathema_. Still, this is something he can’t approach as a stranger, a voice of temptation in the night that hints at freedom. No, instead he is invited for tea, and he is holding a fluffy kitten, and the girl across from him is panickedly grasping at conversation topics.

“So, Anathema tells me you like gardening,” Newt says.

“Yes, I find it _therapeutic_.” Crowley gives his best PTA mom smile, and then promptly remembers he is supposed to help Newt, not _terrify her like so many wilting philodendra_.

“Do you like plants?” He asks, letting some of his tempter charm seep into his voice.

“They’re alright. Haven’t really tried growing any.” Newt fiddles with the edge of a throw pillow.

A few moments pass in awkward silence[17].

“You and Anathema, huh?” Crowley says eventually. “How did that happen?” He instantly regrets his phrasing as he sees Newt’s face fall a bit.

“I don’t know myself. She’s so... _perfect.”_ Newt sighs wistfully and Crowley feels a jolt of envy electrify the air.

“I don’t know how she ended up with me.” Newt gestures at her body and lets out a little self-deprecating laugh.

“You could use a change of wardrobe, I suppose,” Crowley says airily, intentionally misreading Newt’s gesture. “Indulge a little, eh,” he adds coyly.

“Is that like, a d-demon thing?” Newt blurts.

Crowley grins devilishly _._ He has promised to be gentle, but at the end of the day there is one way he knows how to get things done.

“Yes, you know it’s not so much that we put desire into people’s heads, or any of that nonsense,” Crowley says conversationally. “We can simply sense what’s already there; _desires, secrets.”_

Newt shrinks back a bit, and Crowley wonders if he took the pressure to far.

“Let me tell you something. I’ve seen some of the worst, most horrible –yes, even for a demon- things without an ounce of regret attached to them. And then I see even more people filled with shame for things no one should feel shame about. Things that are natural, good even. I don’t understand that about you lot.” His voice is much gentler now, and he can see Newt has become sort of enraptured.

Crowley’s next smile is soft, vulnerable even. “I’ve never seen anyone[18] go to Hell simply for being different.”

Newt is tearing up, but Crowley pretends not to notice.

“People are not… as understanding.” She says bitterly. The _“as an actual demon, apparently”_ is left unsaid.

Crowley shrugs. “Not all of them, but enough of them. Even that old bastard Shadwell has enough kindness in him to get his head out of his arse eventually, with a little help.”

Under normal circumstances Newt would question how the demon knows her former boss. But for now she’s more intent in searching Crowley’s words for the lie. The Bible taught her demons are liars, and experience taught her people who say “everything will be alright” are too. But somehow this feels genuine, and it’s tearing at something inside her that has been balled up and festering for so long. Her tears start rolling in earnest.

Crowley starts to panic a bit. He had wanted to reach her, but now he wonders if he broke her instead. _And what if Aziraphale comes back now?_ Ιt’s a swift decision to go and crouch in front of the girl. He places his hand on hers and looks up.

“Listen, the thing is, for Aziraphale to like Anathema there shouldn’t be an intolerant bone in her body. And…and also Agnes wrote about me helping you, and Aziraphale put me up to this, and he is an actual Angel, and so it should all be alright.” Crowley is full on rambling at this point.

Newt sniffles and actually seems to compose herself.

“You’re trying to help me, what, _come out,_ because Agnes wrote so? And Aziraphale asked you to?”

Crowley shrugs. “Also because things have never been easy the times I’ve been a woman in this corporation, and not just because of good ol’ misogyny. As much as I enjoy the world, it ought to keep up.”

“You have been a- You mean you are…” Newt stumbles over her words and her eyes widen comically.

Crowley gets back up and smiles. “Depends on the mood of the decade, really.” He winks and falls back onto his seat on the couch.

As if on cue[19] Aziraphale and Anathema return with a tea tray, and no one comments on the fact that the tea is a bit on the lukewarm side.

* * *

The two celestial beings leave them with not one but two cats, both of the tabby twins. Neither Newt nor Anathema could pick one or the other, and for Newt there is a second reason; even if she has to leave tonight, she won’t go entirely alone. _She can’t bear to._ But strangely enough, Crowley’s words have convinced her to take this step, which seems like more of a leap off a steep ledge with every passing moment. _Some things are worse than falling,_ she thinks[20].

She holds the little kitten- the female one- close to her chest and it purrs softly without shifting. As if to say _“I’ve got you”,_ she thinks fondly. Her mind is all over the place, and the soft texture of the kitten’s fur, her warmth, and her slow breathing help ground her. She asks Anathema if they can talk, and Anathema directs her to two cups of freshly brewed tea. Newt wonders if it’s the witch thing, or simple human intuition. The kind Newt herself never had. _Hell, it took the End of the World for her to even realize…_

She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. _How does one even start to explain this?_

Anathema speaks up first, after a few pensive sips of her tea.

“I had a talk with Aziraphale earlier,” She starts.

Newt looks up, slightly puzzled at the statement.

“He said, well _advised_ me, to make sure to communicate with each other. And I think he was right. We should be talking, _really talking._ So, will you tell me what troubles you?”

Newt’s eyes widen at that. She realizes she’s holding onto the kitten a bit too tightly and she gently lowers it to the ground.

“You could tell there’s something wrong?” She asks, voice small.

“Anathema reaches for one of Newt’s hands. “I’m a witch, remember?” And then, with a soft smile, “and you do wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Newt’s chest constricts painfully. _Oh how wrong she is,_ she thinks. She has secrets, so deep and held for so long they’ve festered, and she is about to unwrap them. Her heart might not be on her sleeve, but she’s about to rip it out and place it on their small coffee table between the two of them.

“There are things I haven’t told you. That I didn’t know either, or I didn’t know I knew? It’s… so difficult.” Newt gasps out the last word as a sob.

Anathema squeezes harder. She doesn’t tell Newt it’s alright, she doesn’t know that, but she says “I’m here.”

Tears are fully streaming down Newt’s face now; she’s always been quite the crybaby, despite being told boys don’t cry. _That makes sense now too, doesn’t it?_

“I cannot be your _boyfriend._ I mean, I am not a boy, a man. I think I am, you know, all wrong.” She gestures towards her body, eyes glued to the surface of the table. “I mean, I think I am a transgender woman.”

She counts a second. Two. Despite knowing Anathema better than that, she braces for disgust as she finally looks up. She is met with a teary smile that if she didn’t know better she would describe as relieved.

“Oh, Newt.” Anathema breathes out. “I mean, is there something else you prefer to be called?”

Newt’s eyes widen. She hasn’t really considered _that._

“I don’t know yet. Newt is alright,” she mumbles. Despite some of the tension leaving her she’s still trembling slightly.

“Can I hold you?” Anathema asks then.

The air leaves Newt’s lungs. She can only nod as fresh sobs wrack her frame.

Anathema holds her for a long time, rubbing gentle patterns on her back the whole time, until Newt is less overwhelmed and her breathing has stilled.

“You’re not upset? Or shocked?” Newt eventually asks.

“But it all makes sense now.” Anathema breathes out, almost like she’s talking to herself.

“Huh?” Newt mutters.

Anathema pulls back. She cradles Newt’s face in her palms and smiles warmly at her. In an almost not-Anathema way. Newt thinks it’s the most brilliant sight she’s ever seen.

“I like women,” she says, and even though it feels small compared to Newt’s confession it still overwhelms her to hear it leave her lips. “And I liked you, and I didn’t understand what had changed or what could change. And you know it’s not about bodies, I have known that for a while now but I still couldn’t piece it together. I can’t exactly explain it, it’s…”

“Ineffable?” Newt suggests, a bit of a cheeky smile creeping in.

Anathema rolls her eyes fondly. If anyone else in the room could read people’s auras, they would see a rare sight; Anathema’s energy turning a tranquil blue, still and clear like a summer sky.

Newt’s heart skips a bit when Anathema leans in and presses their foreheads together.

“We never did this properly, but I guess that’s all the better,” Anathema says. “Newt Pulsifer, will you be my girlfriend?”

Newt gives her a watery smile, but it’s brilliant all the same; _a gleaming sea reflecting Anathema’s bright sky._

“Yes. Yes, I would love that.”

And then they’re kissing, and in a way it feels like their first kiss for them both.

* * *

In a bookstore in Soho, an angel and a demon drink to a job well done -based on merely the _assumption_ that it was indeed well done- and lovingly look over the two very tired kittens snuggling on the rug at their feet. And then the angel reaches for the demon’s hand, and he ponders on how wondrous it is that he _can._ The demon leans in and kisses the angel, and his heart fills with so much love he thinks he may never feel empty again.

* * *

In the year of our Lord 1610, a witch sits in her cottage and frowns in concentration as she scribbles on a blank page.

‘ _She is not who she says he is.’_

Before the ink has even had time to dry, she crosses over the words. _They’re not right._ She shouldn’t give away too much too soon. _And some things they should discover for themselves_ , she decides solemnly.

She tries it again, and she smiles.

‘ _He is not what he says he is.’_

That will do, for the moment. For _a_ moment, which will also happen to be the right one. She can’t fuss over this forever. She has a lot more to write, and her time is running out.

* * *

[1] One could say miraculously so, and one would be partially correct, even though Aziraphale made a point of hand rearing them as much as possible.

[2] Named for one's dramatic kitten soliloquies, and the other's unending support in them respectively.

[3] He will.

[4] With the power of encouragement, along with the normal care, Aziraphale pointedly says to anyone who might ask.

[5] Or rather, the vague effigy of one.

[6]That is to say, “The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch”, which Anathema considered but ultimately decided not to burn and instead decided to “gyft to the rare booke collector of celestial nature” as foretold in prophecy 7.485, which she never read.

[7] Even if it is currently being used as a wily distraction.

[8] Although Welsh is the closest contender.

[9] Which is more than what Aziraphale can boast.

[10] A source of mild concern for Aziraphale, as always.

[11] Especially for a human, for whom years mean so much more.

[12] Far from a favoured task of his, but he is willing to do it to give his angel time to collect himself.

[13] The kittens are obviously way more adept than Crowley could ever be at charming their way into the couple's hearts.

[14] This information is not new to him, in fact Aziraphale informed him days ago.

[15] Which Aziraphale accepts as a normal reply, after so many millennia of dealing with Crowley in various degrees of fluster.

[16] Anyone would find that this builds a sense of camaraderie, even a demon.

[17] It’s hard to say if in that moment Crowley or Newt want to be swallowed up by the ground more. Perhaps solely due to knowing what’s down there Crowley is the more reluctant contender.

[18] He should specify “anyone human”, that would be more truthful but he can’t bear to go there right now.

[19] But no one of the mortal persuasion can prove that.

[20] And that thought just may have been gently nudged in her consciousness, to strengthen her conviction.


	3. be not afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A person in need visits a peculiar little bookshop in Soho, meets the kind owner, and the two bookshop kittens. Then of course there is the matter of the flaming sword...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so though this chapter had been planned for months, an incident where I lost a lot of it put me off so hard I sort of dropped the fic, and then there was a big bang and writing a multi-chapter, and then there was the matter of the initially only fictional subject of an outed trans character becoming hard to write because as life would have it, I suddenly have real life to draw inspiration from. Still not a self insert, but maybe a bit of catharsis by getting some of the worst bits of my own reality in there, after all the kittens are based on my summer fosters too.  
> So a CW for transphobia, and transphobic parents on this one. Certain bits may be hard for you, as they are for Aziraphale, so take care of yourselves loves.

Aziraphale never was the most diligent worker. Distractions always seem to find their way onto his path, and it doesn't really take the serpent of Eden to tempt him into idleness[1]. How can he not stop the tedious task of shelving to watch his two remaining kittens playfully bound around the shop? They're the sweetest little things, and they become sweeter the more they grow. He is starting to see the wonder in the creatures, not as an all-loving angel, but as someone who spent weeks nursing them to health and witnessing every antic. _They're full of antitheses, cats_ , he thinks. Full of grace even when stumbling in disorientation. Bold and flighty. Patient, but so incredibly curious. There's a spark in those little eyes, the kind Aziraphale can't help but fall for.

The store bell rings, shattering the peaceful moment, and Aziraphale frowns.

"We are actually closed," he says rounding the corner towards the storefront.

"I-I'm so sorry, the sign up front said open and I just wanted to have a look," comes a small voice.

Aziraphale is taken aback at the sight of the person it belongs to. They are young, with red rimmed eyes and their hands are wringing at the hem of their oversized shapeless hoodie. Angels are supposed to sense love and good emotions, but now Aziraphale is struck by their absence, like a cold gaping hole in the centre of this person's soul.

"Actually, it's alright! I thought you were someone else, some customers are a bit too persistent." Aziraphale offers with a soft smile.

"No, I can go, I couldn't afford any of these anyway."

At this Aziraphale smile gets involuntarily warmer. "Well, young people with an interest in knowledge are always welcome to look around," he says.

The kid shuffles nervously after Aziraphale, who goes towards the back in search of the kittens.

"Thank you," they sniffle. "Mr. Fell, is it?"

"Yes, that would be me, but you can call me Aziraphale. And it's really no problem… Oh, what's your name, dear?"

Aziraphale turns to see a haunted look cross their face. There seems to be an internal battle in the kid's head, and at its conclusion they stammer "M-Miles."

Aziraphale senses the waves of emotion behind the one little word. There is a lot of fear, but also pride - _this is my name, I chose this, I will defend it_. And there is a little prayer that involuntarily floats vaguely upwards and downwards and wherever-they-will-answer-it-wards[2]: ‘ _Please get it right. I'm not a girl, not a she, not a they even, please…_

"Pleasure to meet you, Miles," says Aziraphale brightly. He watches the boy brighten up at the reply. 

The two kittens chose this moment to come bounding from behind a bookshelf. They are a comical sight; the ratty tuxedo is chasing its calico sister who is twice its size, and they both end up in a rolling pile at Aziraphale's feet.

Miles lets out a soft delighted gasp. "You have a bookshop cat? With kittens?" 

"Just the kittens, they were abandoned and my partner rescued them. There used to be two more, but they got adopted," the angel says.

And then, because he doesn't need to be a demon to notice the intensely focused desire in the boy's face he says: "they're quite friendly, you can pick them up if you want."

He watches Miles approach them slowly, careful not to scare them. He gathers them up gently and smiles, a bright smile full of love and genuine joy.

"Would you like some cocoa? I was making some." Aziraphale offers.

"Yes, thank you." Miles nods and takes the kittens with him to an empty armchair.

Aziraphale keeps an eye on the young man through the door while he prepares the cocoa the human way[3]. He wants to make sure the kittens won't be mishandled, after all. He catches sight of him sniffling and quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He showers the kittens with affection, and it doesn't take an angel's acute sense of hearing to catch the storm of purrs that ensues. 

He smiles a little to himself, as he feels the soft cloud of love thicken in the air. _Now that's better._

He comes back out of the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs.

"There you go, young man," says Aziraphale as he hands one mug to the boy.

A smile ghosts over Miles's lips and he accepts the comforting beverage gratefully. His eyes light up, ever so slightly at the sight of the heavy helping of marshmallows somehow balanced[4] on top of the drink.

"Thank you, Mr. Fell."

"My pleasure," Aziraphale says softly.

He lets the boy try the cocoa, which he of course finds to be in the perfect drinking temperature, and after a few long sips of his own drink the angel speaks up again.

"Now, dear boy, do excuse the intrusion, but you don't seem quite alright."

Miles takes a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around the mug. "I’m not."

The scraggly tuxedo kitten leaves the boy's lap, where both her and her sister had settled for a nap. She climbs her way up to his chest, skinny wobbly legs decisively finding footholds in the fabric. Miles lets out a slightly wet chuckle and he places the mug on the reading table by his armchair to help her on her quest, which turns out to be reaching his shoulder, from where she can rub her head on his cheek with all the urgency only a very small cat could put in that gesture. The boy turns his head and gently kisses her forehead. She gives an appreciative ‘mrrp’ and decides to return the favour by biting his nose.

"Ow, you little goblin," he laughs and gently pries her away. Then he turns back to Aziraphale. "It's home. They… my mum said…" he chokes on his own words and tears well up in his eyes.

Aziraphale knows he can't tamper with humans' heads, their free will, but _it's called saving grace for a reason, right?_

Miles would find the best way to describe the feeling that washes over him in that moment as akin to being enveloped by soft fluffy wings. _A silly description for an emotion,_ he would immediately dismiss, if he actually thought about it.

"Take your time, son," says Aziraphale gently.

Miles breathes in and out slowly a few times. Then he speaks again, voice still shaky but stronger. "They found out, my family, that I'm transgender. I knew they wouldn't take it well, I wasn't going to… to tell them until I was away for college, able to stand on my own feet no matter what."

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, but he nods encouragingly when the boy pauses.

“Μy mum, she started crying, and then…” The boy’s words become slurred as he erupts into sobs. 

Aziraphale knows better than to interfere again. Humans souls can only take so much grief, so it needs to be allowed to pour out of them. He also knows he must tamp his own emotional turmoil down; this is not about him, and he cannot burden the young man with his feelings on top of his own. 

It takes a few minutes for Miles to manage to speak again. The expression that settles on his red-rimmed puffy eyes is one painfully familiar to Aziraphale; _grief, rejection, shame, anger because he knows deep down he has nothing to be ashamed of._ Aziraphale has seen it all before, time and again, in the eyes of the person he loves the most. A lump starts forming in his throat despite his efforts to will it away.

“Then she got angry,” Mile continues unprompted, startling Aziraphale. “She said I killed her daughter, and that I managed to… that I make her want to kill herself, that I should feel _happy_ I finally ruined her life entirely and- _Uh, Mr. Fell?_ ” The boy's voice suddenly jumps to a higher octave, and his eyes widen and stare at him in unblinking awe.

"What-" Aziraphale begins to question, when he becomes aware of a familiar weight in his right hand.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, as he slowly turns towards the source of heat and light dancing just out of his field of vision.

"Oh, crumbs," he says as he lays eyes on the flaming sword that has materialized in his grip.

"Oh, I'm so terribly sorry," Aziraphale mumbles[5], shaking the sword out like one would a match until the flames disappear.

He sees the fear in the kid’s eyes simmer down to something else; confusion, curiosity, wonderment even. He realizes then that he is still brandishing a sword at a human boy, and even with the flames put out it must be distressing. In his panic, he tosses the sword behind the back of his armchair, where it promptly never lands[6]. Miles opens and closes his mouth a few times, he leans forward to peer around Aziraphale’s armchair, and then he turns his incredulous glance back on the bookseller now wringing his hands in front of himself.

“This -oh, how embarrassing - this kind of thing doesn’t normally happen,” mutters Aziraphale.

“Not _normally_ , huh?” Miles echoes.

He’s staring at Aziraphale now, as if trying to peel back several layers of reality to see what’s really there in front of him. He is not, Aziraphale notices, as terrified as most people who have looked at him like that over the centuries were. _What to do then?_

“Are you like a witch- a warlock I mean?” Miles prods, a strange gleam in his eye that throws Aziraphale off.

 _That’s humans for you,_ Aziraphale thinks somewhat fondly, still the guessing game and the nature of the first guess nettle him. “No,” he says, a bit more haughtily than intended.

“Are you a god of some sort?”

“Oh dear, no!” Aziraphale sputters. His glance momentarily flits upwards, half expecting holy fire to rain on him at the blasphemous suggestion, even when it weren’t his own.

“Oh, wait! Are you like a demon, in the biblical sense?” Miles delights a bit too much in that little guessing game, which is unwise considering the dangerous implications of all his guesses. He can’t bring himself to care too much right now.

“Oh now, what gave you _that_ idea? Really, a demon?” Aziraphale cries out in distress. _Crowley would be having a field day with this,_ he thinks wearily, which does make the situation more bearable.

“I dunno,” Miles mumbles, ducking his head down. “The weird old books, and the flames on that sword and- _Oh shit, you’re an angel!”_ He snaps his head up, taking in the being in front with him in a new light.

Aziraphale fights the urge to squirm under the scrutiny- _that would not be very angelic of him_ , and for a moment neither says anything. Eventually he comes to his senses and speaks. “Yes, and I am sorry you had to see something like this, I got rather upset with what you told me, the injustice of it, and I got carried away.”

“Wait, are you going to… smite my mum?”

“Heavens, no!” Aziraphale throws up his hands in a motion of surrender. “Even if you wanted me to, dear boy, this is not the kind of thing I-”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Miles interrupts in a small voice. “She… I don’t know, she isn’t always like that, and though I know I should not accept her being like that ever, I do love her and she loves me in her way. Whether I end up walking away for my own good, or she actually becomes better, I would not wish her harm.”

Aziraphale finds himself breathless for a moment, filled with the kind of sentimentality upstairs would never approve of. But he doesn’t need their approval, so he allows himself to feel it. He gives a beaming sort of smile to the young human in front of him, with all of his marvelous compassion and wisdom beyond his years.

“You are an exceptional young man,” he says kindly.

Miles ducks his head once again, hands wringing the hem of his shirt. He seems to be considering whether he should deflect against an actual honest-to-God angel.

“Your heart is in the right place, and I wish I could help make it so that the same goes for your mother. But human will is its own thing, cannot be truly interfered with.” Aziraphale explains.

Miles looks up, a watery half-smile plastered on his face. “I figured as much, we are kind of on our own, aren’t we?”

“Trust me, it’s actually for the best,” says Aziraphale, giving a long suffering upward glance. “Now, listen, I am afraid you cannot continue knowing what you learned, about the whole…” Aziraphale gives a general gesture around the shop and towards himself. “You will forget that part as soon as you walk out of here.”

Miles nods; _it could be worse_ , he thinks. He doesn’t understand why the angel seems to sound apologetic about it. “Will I still remember the shop, and the cats, and you?”

Aziraphale nods. “No need for you not to.” He pauses to consider his next words. He has already decided to send a little blessing towards the boy’s way, help in any small way he can, but he worries about the expectations he might set in saying so. However, he doesn’t want Miles to leave thinking nothing came out of it either, a kind gesture is exactly what he needs right now, in this hour of darkness.

“Speaking of, if that would not cause you more trouble at home, would you like to keep one?”

Miles’ eyes widen, and he looks down at the kittens still perched on him, before snapping his head back up towards Aziraphale.

“A kitten?”

“Yes, I do think you will care for it well, if you decide you can take the responsibility right now.”

Miles nods enthusiastically. “Mum loves cats too, we already have one, she’s a bit of an old grump with other cats but she’d come around,” he says excitedly. “Οh, thank you Mr. Fell- er, I mean Mr. Aziraphale?”

“Oh, either way is alright, don’t worry dear. Now, which one would you like?”

Τhere is no moment of hesitation, as Miles plucks the little runt off his shoulder. “I like her.” He grins. “Does she have a name?”

“Oh, not really. Though my partner calls her Bee.”

“That’s sweet.”

“From _Beelzebub,”_ Aziraphale admits.

“Wait, is your partner…” Miles doesn’t say, but he gives a glance up.

Aziraphale sighs. The more the kid knows, the more confused he will be at the gaps in his knowledge, so he pretends not to understand.

“He’s a pain in the neck, is what he is,” he says rather fondly, and then: “In any case, you can have her.”

Miles grins, he cradles the kitten to his chest like a holy thing. Wrapped in fine-boned short fingers and love, Bee seems content. It’s the longest she’s been away from Aziraphale, he realizes with a start, but she doesn’t seek him out. He smiles a bittersweet smile. _Sometimes it’s hard to let them go,_ he muses. _She will be in excellent hands though._

“You can stay around as long as you need,” Aziraphale interjects when he sees the boy gather himself up.

“Thank you, Mr. Fell. I think I better be going though, no sense delaying it. I might pass by, tell you how little Bee is adapting, if I really don’t forget about this place,” he says.

“You won’t, I promise. Take care then and, ” Aziraphale allows himself a bit of a cheeky grin “be not afraid.” He winks at the boy, who’s shuffling towards the front door, and he’s rewarded with a little laugh.

He watches the young man exit the shop, glancing behind him towards the entrance every few steps. Aziraphale doesn’t worry, he knows by the time he reaches the next corner, he will firmly remember the strange bookseller who comforted him and gave him one of his rescued kittens, but nothing more; not the sword, not a revelation that should be world-shattering, hadn’t his world already shattered mere hours before. 

He will remember the warmth and hope this place gave him, and unbeknownst to the angel at the time, he will visit again, greet him warmly and talk, over a cup of tea this time. Things will get better, and they will get worse, and he will persevere, but Aziraphale doesn’t know any of this with any measure of certainty, which he knows now, after many talks with young Anathema, is probably for the best. He mutters his blessing for the young man, and for his misguided family, even a little something for their cats, and he turns back towards his backroom. His cocoa has grown cold again, but he cannot find it in him to mind.

* * *

Hardly any time passes before the door swings open with the sort of careless abandon Aziraphale has come to recognise and delight in. He steps out into the front area, reading glasses perched on his nose, the last of their kittens nestled on the crook of his arm.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley beams “I brought chocolates.” He holds up a little gift-wrapped box as if to demonstrate.

“Oh, what’s the occasion?” asks Aziraphale, not bothering to hide his delight.

Crowley shrugs, but the smile doesn’t fade from his face. He saunters up into Aziraphale’s space, and even after everything Aziraphale blushes at the closeness.

“Do I need an occasion to bring my angel a present?” Asks Crowley playfully.

Aziraphale leans even closer, anticipation bubbling up in his chest.

“Angel, where’s little Bee?” Crowley asks suddenly, breaking the moment.

“Mhh?” Aziraphale looks up, trying to focus on trivial stuff like words again.

“She’s always clinging on you, or on her sister,” Crowley elaborates, pointing towards the other kitten in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh-I, uh... I gave her away.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up, and Aziraphale is hit with a wave of familiarity at Crowley’s expression. His own choice of words dawns on him and his blush deepens.

Crowley removes his shades and folds them into his jacket pocket, which automatically urges Aziraphale to look into his eyes. There is so much wonder there, like that day in The Garden. And so, _so much love,_ that surely he’d known if it had been there before Crowley started covering his eyes. Or so he thinks. It almost hurts to look at him, when he considers that, so Aziraphale lowers his eyes.

“Oh, angel, she was your favourite,” Crowley says, reaching up to gently cup the side of Aziraphale’s face, no doubt misreading the reason Aziraphale averted his gaze.

Aziraphale leans into the cool touch that fills him with warmth regardless. “Someone needed her more than me. I did the right thing,” he says, not a single modicum of doubt in his voice.

Crowley doesn’t say anything for a second, and then he’s tilting his head up and leaning forward. Aziraphale is the one who closes the last of the distance between their lips. The explosion in his chest is the same as the first time, no matter how many times it has been. Kissing Crowley feels like making port after a storm, and also the storm itself. It’s a quiet explosion, and a deafening whisper against the walls of his heart. It’s the only thing that will always feel right, and if it’s wrong he’s willing to Fall for it.

Crowley pulls back first, only the tiniest fraction before he leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s. The angel's eyes flutter closed, but he can still feel the smile spreading on Crowley’s face.

“Oh angel, I do love you so,” Crowley breathes out.

“I love you too, dear, more than anything in this world.”

* * *

[1] In fact, one could argue that this would have the opposite effect, just for the sake of him saying "can't you see I'm busy, Crowley" in a prim voice.

[2] Which so happens to be the slightly peculiar looking bookseller in front of him.

[3] For reasons unknown, but probably related to Aziraphale’s love for human rituals such as food and drink preparation, miracled cocoa just doesn’t taste as good.

[4] Aziraphale has perfected the art of ever so slightly bending the concept of space for that exact purpose.

[5] It bears noting, that while there is no social script for when you accidentally materialize a flaming sword in front of a human, there is one for general mishaps or accidents, and Aziraphale has been defaulting to manners pretty much since they were invented.

[6] Not on this plane of existence, that is.

**Author's Note:**

> This started with me coping with the stress of finding a box of orphaned kittens and the worry of those first few days. It was going to be pure cat related fluff but then the Crowley angst and the subsequent Aziraphale comfort somehow took over. Thanks for reading.


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